


Longer Than Forever

by Silver_Queen_DoS



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, F/M, Pre-Canon, Vegas Wedding, Woke Up Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen_DoS/pseuds/Silver_Queen_DoS
Summary: It’s very, very easy to get married on the Citadel — too easy, some might say. And much harder to make a marriage work afterwards.





	Longer Than Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Katana4544](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady_Katana4544).

> Written for the Alternate Universe Exchange (2019) for Lady_Katana4544

Garrus Vakarian wakes up and immediately regrets it. 

Not because of the hangover. That’s manageable — well, mostly manageable — as far as those things go. It’s the revelation that a whole lot of decisions that had seemed so _clever_ the previous night look a lot less promising in the cold light of day. 

He’d gone to the local mixed species bar, only to discover there had been an open Asari wedding night. Not the kind that got C-Sec called for indecent acts and wound up with a full night of arrests, but the kind with a bar discount and an officiant signing wedding certificates like they were going out of style as people got drunker and drunker and decided that an elopement started to sound like an excellent idea. 

Most of them will probably find an administrative centre and annul it come morning — and it’s not like a Citadel wedding is necessarily _binding _for all of them. Not when each separate race and colony has its own ideas about what ‘marriage’ even _means_, let alone the requirements and legal obligations thereof. 

Garrus had had two glasses of Palaven Sour more than normal, still smarting over his father’s last phone call and the constant feeling of inadequacy in the face of familial duties that only seemed to grow more onerous. This time it had been extortions to _marry a suitable girl_ and well… 

Two-glasses-of-Sour Garrus had watched a Hanar marry an Elcor and thought ‘what if I marry someone _unsuitable_. That’ll show him.’ 

Hungover Garrus knows that _like spirits_ he’s ever going to mention this to his father. 

Garrus isn’t going to mention this to _anyone_. He can just imagine how much shit everyone at the station would give him for having a stand-up-drunken-wedding. He’d never live it down. 

He groans and finally cracks his eyes open. 

His… partner… is still there, awkwardly squished on the other side of the mattress, not looking particularly comfortable on the bumps and curves bed shaped for a turian carapace and not… however it is humans sleep. At least she’s still here — that’s one positive. He has a vague memory of her appearing at the bar with a wave of other Alliance soldiers, clearly a crew on shore leave, and he’s not entirely sure what he said to convince her to go along with it, only that she’d found the idea hilarious. 

Two-glasses-of-Sour Garrus is apparently far more charming that he has a right to be when proposing terrible ideas. 

_Hopefully that attitude sticks_, he thinks ruefully, getting up to perform his morning ablutions and to try and prepare himself for whatever conversation they’re going to need to have when she wakes up. 

It doesn’t go how he expects. 

It’s not much later when she does rise and shuffle slowly out of the bedchamber. His apartment isn’t big, but the kitchen-living area is at least distinct from the bedchamber. 

“Good morning,” he offers, awkwardly. “Hungover?” 

Another human might be able to tell her status from the distribution of colour across her skin or the positioning of the muscles in her face, but Garrus doesn’t have _that_ much familiarity with humans. They’re still fairly rare on the Citadel, though becoming more common as time goes on. 

“Not so much,” she says and her vocal harmonisation is nearly _static_ with pain. 

Garrus jolts, more alarmed now, though doesn’t move close in case that’s regarded as aggressive. C-Sec trains all its officers for interspecies conflict but the information on how to deal with humans is limited and there’s no telling if any particular individual is representative of the whole, or will react in new and unique ways. 

“Please tell me we’re close to Bachjret docks,” she adds. “I left all my meds on-ship.” 

Garrus clicks his mandible in a grimace. “Unfortunately not,” he says. “You’d need a shuttle to Presidium Junction, another around the ring, and then out to the docks. You’re looking at an hour, maybe more.” 

Her shoulders hunch inwards in a way that _can’t_ be physiologically possible — or are humans just that bendy? — making her look thin and insubstantial. 

“Okay,” she says, tone businesslike but the underlying harmonics still screaming _pain_. “Second question, is there a med clinic around here where I can get a levo prescription filled?” 

_That_ Garrus knows the answer to, thankfully. “Yeah, there’s a human clinic in the Upper Ward. I can show you where.” 

Whatever conversation they need to have can wait till after. Garrus fits his visor on, clicks his C-Sec issue pistol into place and locks the door behind them. 

* * *

“Dr. Chloe Michel,” Garrus introduces as he leads her into the free clinic in the Upper Ward. In that second he realises he has no ability to return the introduction in the other direction. _What is her name?_

It’s not the first time he’s brought someone to the clinic, and it’s unlikely to be the last, but he’s hyper consciously aware of the _reason_ this time. He hopes Dr. Michel doesn’t ask. 

“Hey, doc,” his partner says, facial muscles distorting oddly. She sounds friendly, though, despite the audible pain. “I’m hoping I can get some painkillers. Got my prescription here, but I left the meds ship-board. We ended up staying out longer last night than intended.” 

She flicks her hand over her omnitool — and that’s a _nice_ military grade piece of equipment — and must send the prescription to Dr. Michels, who opens it and inspects it. 

“I can’t fill this for you, Shepard,” Dr. Michels says after a long moment. “For one, this is… very heavy duty. And I’d be wary of sending anyone out with that quantity in this neighbourhood. But I can give you a shot of equivalent pain reducer. Are you on any other medication?” 

_Shepard_, Garrus notes, committing it to memory. Whether that’s a first, last or sole name he doesn’t know, but it’s better than nothing. It’s _probably_ not a rank, but he wouldn’t rule it out. 

“That’d be great,” Shepard says. “Let me send you—” 

She flicks her fingers over her onmitool again, and sinks down to sit on one of the patient chairs, gingerly. 

Dr. Michels goes over the information with a careful eye, but her eyebrow kicks up in a way that Garrus interprets as similar to a mandible flare. Surprise. Shock. Inquiry. “Are those _acid_ burns?” 

Shepard flashes her teeth. He wonders if she’s annoyed at the probing question — if she’s a soldier her injuries might be classified. 

“Sure is,” she says, and her vocal harmonics are amused. It probably wasn’t meant as a threat display, then. “It wasn’t actually the acid that was the problem, though. It was the sand that got into it.” 

“Infection,” Dr. Michel says, nodding. “Which is why you’re also on heavy duty antibiotics. Okay, you’re not allergic to anything and there shouldn’t be any interactions. I’ll add a note here about what I’m giving you, and if you experience any symptoms—” 

“-go to medical immediately,” Shepard finishes. “I got it, doc.” 

She _does_ look better after Dr. Michels gives her a shot though. When she stands, its with a smooth motion, not the tense shuffling she’s used so far this morning. 

“Thanks,” she says. “What do I owe you?” 

“It’s a free clinic,” Dr. Michels demurs. 

“A donation, then,” Shepard says, with another flash of teeth. “C’mon doc. You really saved my morning.” 

That Dr. Michels allows, which Garrus makes note of. He’s never managed to out manoeuvre the doctor on matters of payment before. That should prove to be a handy skill to have in the future. 

“I’ll give you some over-the-counter painkillers too,” Dr. Michels says. “But make sure you eat something when you take them.” 

“Will do,” Shepard says, as they leave the Med Clinic. 

There’s an awkward pause. 

“There’s a market a few streets over,” Garrus offers. Now that the initial mission has been completed, his nerves are coming back. “You should be able to find something levo to eat.” 

She probably doesn’t need to take the second painkillers immediately, but breakfast is still a thing. It’s not like there’s anything human suitable at his place. If they go back there. 

“Sounds good,” Shepard says. She’s moving easier now, and falls into step with him instead of limping along. He has to shorten his stride a little to match her but it’s not an uncomfortable adjustment. 

They grab food from the food stalls, and even manage to grab a table and chairs along the side of the street. Garrus gets what claims to be a Menae omelet — tasty despite its dubious resemblance to its name — and Shepard acquires something that seems to be a slab of protein between slices of carbohydrate. 

“So,” Garrus says, clicking his mandible nervously. “Acid burn?” 

_Probably_ not the topic he should be broaching, actually. 

Shepard chews and swallows the bite of her food. “Yeah. Thresher Maw,” she says, casually. As if that’s a common cause of acid burns. 

Garrus blinks. Then whistles. He’s heard enough soldierly bragging over his service to know when someone is being serious. “And you survived it?” 

“Melted my hardsuit to shit, but yeah,” she says. “The rest of them weren’t so lucky.” 

_Definitely_ not the topic he should be broaching. But he’s just not sure how to segue from that to ‘so we got married’. 

“You ever seen one?” she asks, eyes fixed on her food. Her tone is still casual, but focused. “Fought one?” 

Intel gathering, maybe. 

“Definitely not,” Garrus says. “And I hope I never do. Hierarchy standard protocol for Thresher Maws is GTFO.” 

She makes a muffled sound that he tentatively interprets as laughter. “I hope that’s how the Alliance reacts,” she says. “Last I heard they were speculating that a mako turret would be sufficient.” 

Garrus scoffs instantly. “Not unless a mako is a cruiser class ship, and firing on a planet from out of atmosphere. Which is illegal according to Council bylaw.” 

“I’m sure we could make an exception for Thresher Maws,” Shepard says. There’s enough amusement laced into her voice that he knows she’s not entirely serious about advocating for aerial bombardment. 

So they spend a couple of hours quibbling about the fire power that could theoretically be brought to bear against a Thresher Maw and whether or not using it should be legal. And then segue into general discussions about ships, guns and firepower. It’s probably the best company he’s had on a day off since he came to the Citadel. 

But it has to come to an end. Shepard says, “I should head back to the ship before these wear off. Where did you say the shuttle was?” 

“I’ll show you.” Garrus walks her to the shuttle station, pointing out which stop she needs to exit at and what changeover she’ll need to take to get to Bachjret Ward and the docks. 

When they get there, though, there are plenty of other humans at the station — clearly the remainder of her crew returning back from their own long nights out. Their shore leave period must be coming to an end if they’re all returning at the same time. 

“C-Sec?” one of them asks, raising an eyebrow at Shepard. “What trouble did _you_ get in?” 

The shuttle door closes before Garrus can hear her answer. 

* * *

He should worry more about the fact that he’s technically married to someone who he knows nothing about. Turians do have an equivalency agreement with the Citadel that makes it actually legal — though only if the other party also has the same agreement, which he suspects that humans do not. Half legally married then, as long as both of them are on the Citadel. 

After a few days, the marriage certificate comes through the system, signed with their slightly sloppy drunken signatures and official identity codes. He finds out her name is Jane Shepard, occupation Alliance Marine, service no. 5923-AC-2826. 

He _could_ use that to track her down, call in some favours and find out where she’s posted. He could just file the annulment request electronically and have it transmitted to her without any further interaction. 

In the end, he does neither. 

He just leaves it be, her name attached to his in his official file. No one notices, no one asks. 

Then about a year later, there’s someone waiting outside his apartment. 

He has his hand on his gun as he approaches — it’s not unheard of for work to follow a C-Sec officer home — and the look of the human doesn’t reassure him much. A solider, wearing a red and black hardsuit, with military issue guns slung across their back. 

But there’s also a black military bag at their — _her_ — feet and the red of her strange human hair is familiar. 

“Shepard,” he says and tries not to be surprised. He drops his hand from his gun. 

“Hey,” she says, vocal harmonics betraying her awkwardness. “I wondered if I’d got the wrong place. Or if you weren’t here any longer. It was starting to seem like a stupid idea.” Her lips twist. 

_Wry_. He’s gotten better at reading human expressions. Not that he was practising or anything. 

“Still here,” he says and unlocks the door. “You, uh, you wanna come in?” 

She picks up her bag and follows him inside. It seems a little unreal for her to be there — he’s thought about her and he hasn’t thought about her, over the months. Nothing had come of it, no contact, no nothing, so it hadn’t been pressing. But there had been potential, a missed connection, that he’d wondered about sometimes. 

“Just a social visit?” he asks. Maybe she’s come to get the annulment signed. Or who knows what. Maybe she has a legal partner at every port. Some soldiers do. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I had a stop over on the Citadel with a few days between postings. I figured—” she hesitates, then continues on. “Well. I figured I knew at least one person who lived on the Citadel.” 

He chuckles. “Your military didn’t spring for a hotel chit?” 

“Oh, they did,” she says. “And I can use it if you want me out of your h— out of your space.” Her shoulders rise up and down. “But it’s been a year so I should probably stop running from it.” 

Briefly, Garrus is stung she considers him something to be _run from_. But then… he knows nothing about her, nothing about her reasons for agreeing in the first place, or her own reasons for not asking for it to be ended. She’d been injured, back from a mission that had gone the way of _Thresher Maw attack_ and loaded up on pain and painkillers. 

They’d talked and he’d liked her, but he couldn’t really say he _knew_ her. 

“Shouldn’t run from a turian,” is all he says, flaring a mandible to show it’s a joke. “We’re faster than you humans.” 

Challenge sparks in her eyes. “Oh, we’ll have to put _that_ to the test,” she says. 

Garrus chuckles lowly. Competition he can handle. Competition is _normal_ between squadmates, between partners, between whatever-they-are. “You’re welcome to stay,” he says. “So, uh. Why’d you agree?” 

Shepard sighs, but straightens her shoulders, looking like a soldier coming to attention more than anything. “I needed a name to put down as next-of-kin,” she says bluntly. “After Akuze… well. I didn’t have anyone within the military. And… I don’t know. I was on a lot of painkillers. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You?” 

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Garrus echoes. His own reasons sound even less valid than that. “Mostly I was just pissed at my father picking out suitable women for me to marry. I thought ‘this will show him’.” 

Shepard laughs. “Did it?” 

“Shit, no,” Garrus says. “I didn’t tell him. I sobered up and realised it would only make things so much worse.” 

Shepard laughs again. “So, uh. Did you want to…” she makes a slashing motion with her hand. “Why didn’t you?” 

Garrus remains deliberately casual. “I don’t know, seemed like it would cause more fuss and make people notice all the annulment paperwork that’d have to be signed off. Do you have someone else for your next-of-kin now?” 

The annoyance of bureaucracy he understands — just not being so alone that you only have the next stranger that comes along. Everything he knows about humans says they’re social creatures, that exist within complex webs of relationships and family units. 

Not so different from turians, really. 

“I can make something up,” Shepard says easily. 

_So, no_. 

“It doesn’t bother me if you leave it,” he assures her. “There’s no rush.” 

“Cool,” she says, as if there’s nothing more to it than that. “The Alliance is still biased towards amatonormativity even if they won’t admit it — there’s a bunch of perks you get access to just for being married. That’s how I managed to get leave on the _Citadel _instead of whatever shit heap was closest.” 

She looks pleased, smirking a bit as if she’s pulled one over her Hierarchy simply by playing at their rules. 

“Far be it from me to deprive you of this luxury,” he drawls, gesturing at the bland walls of his apartment. C-Sec (and turian, really) policy is for officers to live in the districts they police to build a sense of community and territorial protectiveness. 

He likes it, but it’s not exactly any definition of _luxury_. 

And that’s the end of talking about it. The conversation slips onto other matters — the guns she’s carrying, whether she’s any good at using them, an agreement to go shooting on his day off to prove it — and he can’t regret it. 

She sleeps in the camp bed that he brought when Solana had threatened to visit and they eat out rather than risk having both levo and dextro food in the apartment and they go to the range a few times to practice together. No consensus on which of them is better. 

Shepard occupies herself while Garrus is on duty, and keeps her gear packed with the military precision of someone used to shipping out at a moments notice. 

She makes for an unobtrusive house guest and they settle into an easy routine for the two weeks she’s there. He’s sorry to see her go when she leaves, but this time they’ve exchanged comm numbers. 

“Write to me,” she suggests. “If we touch any comm buoys, I’ll write back.” 

* * *

They exchange _a lot_ of emails. He’s even in the middle of writing one — just silly things ‘_there’s a Krogan that insists on fishing in the Presidium water fountains despite being arrested several times. There are no fish there’_ — when a call comes through his comm. 

“Officer Vakarian,” he answers, automatically, flicking it onto the screen. 

A human in Alliance uniform blinks at him on his computer terminal. She appears taken aback, which is strange given that she called _him._ On his personal number, not the C-Sec hotline. 

There’s pretty much… only one reason for that. He tries not to think about it. 

“Uh, Garrus Vakarian?” The human asks, eyes dropping down to check whatever information she’d used to call him. He bets whatever Shepard wrote, it doesn’t say ‘turian’. 

If the circumstances were better, he thinks he would enjoy the baffled shock. 

“Affirmative.” 

“Uh, well. This is Sergeant Keyton from the Systems Alliance Personnel Contact Services. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Commander Jane Shepard, 5923-AC-2826…” 

“Affirmative,” Garrus says again. Around him, the C-Sec office has gone dead silent. They’re all cops — they all know what it means it be contacted about an active duty service member. Most of them have probably had to make calls like this themselves. 

The Alliance woman seems like she will waffle again, thrown too far off her stride by being confronted with a turian, instead of another human so he pushes and asks, “is she deceased?” 

“No! Commander Shepard was heavily injured but medical services are confident she will make a full recovery in time. She’s being transported to the Citadel as we speak, and the ship will be out of comm range until shortly before arrival.” 

Garrus allows himself one blink of relief. “I see,” he says. “Are there any arrangements I should make? Will Shepard have access to a comm?” 

He doesn’t actually know what the Alliance protocol for next-of-kin _is._ If there’s anything he should be doing in this role. 

The Alliance Personnel Contact Services forwards him the details of Shepard’s ship and the hospital where she’s being transferred — Huerta Memorial Hospital which only makes him wonder what _kind_ of injures Shepard ended up with this time to get that premium care. No military shells out that kind of cash for just anyone. 

When the call is over, Garrus calmly closes the window and goes back to tapping at his terminal. He’s not even making words, just gibberish letters, but the appearance of normality allows him to pretend that he’s not aware of the focused gaze all his colleagues have fixed on him. 

“So when were you going to let us know you were _married_?” Chellick asks, voice twanging with potential teasing. 

“It’s in my file,” Garrus answers mildly, putting the onus back on them. They could have found out, at any time. It’s not like he was keeping it a secret, really. _Really_. 

Yeah, that’s going to go over well. He wishes the call had come in at literally any other time. 

“I need to file some leave,” he says. It’s short notice — really short notice — but it’s not like anyone can protest. Shepard’s complaints about amatonormativity aside, the turian system is basically built around assuming part of a familial unit will be on military duty at any given time, and all the downsides that come with it. 

Being at home isn’t much better, it just gives him an excuse to pace around, watching the clock until Shepard arrives on the Citadel. He calculates the amount of time it’ll take the ship to dock, the passengers to disembark, Shepard to be transported to the hospital and inducted… 

Then he calls her. 

“Hey,” she slurs into the comm. It’s beamed from her omnitool and clearly not on her arm — the angle is raised high and gives him a view of the wall above her head. “Good timing. I just arrived on the Citadel.” She giggles, biting it off. 

“I know,” Garrus says. “Your Contact Services called me.” He clicks his mandibles. “Is there anything I need to do for you?” 

“They called you?” Shepard sounds surprised. “I didn’t know they would do that. I don’t think there’s anything you need to do… I’ve never had a next-of-kin before and I’ve been just fine.” 

So at least he’s not responsible for organising anything. Good. He wouldn’t know where to start with human medical care. 

“I can visit?” he offers because he’s got a long day of nothing ahead of him otherwise. 

“Sure!” Shepard chirps. “Room 212. I’ll let them know to expect you.” 

Huerta Memorial Hospital is in the Presidium itself, so Garrus takes a shuttle to the nearest station. Like most of the Presidium buildings it’s white and clean with massive plexiglass windows letting in the light and view. 

Shepard had given him her room number so Garrus bypasses the welcome desk, walking in with confidence like he knows where he’s going and reading the signs on the walls until he finds 212. 

“I thought your medical services said you would be alright,” he says, doubtfully, when he sees her and the extent of her injuries. 

Shepard cranes her neck so that she can see the door and waves him in. “I’ll be _fine_,” she says, voice exaggerated. “Eventually. They had to put a bunch of metal pins into my leg to hold it together while it heals, but it’ll heal.” 

He’s pretty sure a turian with that amount of carapace damage wouldn’t survive. Maybe that’s something to be said for an endoskeleton. 

“You humans are just like smaller, squishier krogans, aren’t you?” he asks, making Shepard laugh. 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, husband,” she says, _just _as a nurse comes into the room in time to hear her. 

The nurse glances between them like _surely_ she misheard. Garrus has his identification up — rightfully he should have been stopped before now for a security check — but he _does_ have the right to be here. 

“You did that on purpose,” he comments, when the nurse has bustled about the room, checked things, and left again. 

Shepard snickers. “Her face. But the secret is out now,” she says. “We’re only going to get so much mileage out of it. Better enjoy it while it lasts.” 

Garrus chuckles. “Oh yeah,” he says. “All of C-Sec will know by morning.” Surprisingly, he doesn’t dread it as much as he had a handful of hours ago. At least Shepard will be here to bear the brunt of it with him. 

* * *

“Since you’ll be here longer this time, I figured it was time we moved to a bigger apartment,” Garrus says, as if he hadn’t just put the request through his omnitool in front of her. 

“Good idea,” Shepard says. Her surgeries have gone well — apparently — and the hospital is on track to release her. “I wasn’t looking forward to those stairs.” 

“There is an elevator,” Garrus points out. 

“I’m unconvinced,” Shepard says. “Galactic engineering and the Citadel elevators take that long? I think they’re just rooms in zero g that wait for the Citadel to revolve around them.” 

Garrus chuckles. “Well, either way you won’t have to deal with it. But my squad has offered to help us move so you _will_ have to deal with them.” He flicks his mandibles nervously. 

Shepard must have got better at reading turian expressions too because she asks, “will they be a problem? Or a _problem?_” 

“Just nosy,” he says, hoping he’s right. 

He’d have liked to have their stuff moved before Shepard was released, but the timing doesn’t work out. He drops her at the new apartment — it’s not _that_ much bigger but it has two bedchambers and a kitchen large enough to fit two refrigeration units in, so they can keep food without the risk of cross contamination — while he empties the old place out. 

It means he can’t run interference between her and his squadmates, but she seems tolerant of their attention, if a little bemused. He catches more than one snippet of conversation between her and Chellick and he’s _pretty sure_ Chellick has her half-convinced to do some undercover work in the wards for him on his weapons smuggling case. 

“Not until she’s healed enough to run away properly,” Garrus interjects. She’d probably do it anyway, now that she knows about it, so it’s better for Chellick to have to deal with the repercussions than him. “You know they put metal rods in there because the bone was so broken?” 

“Barbaric,” Chellick says, glancing at the thick plaster carapace around Shepard’s leg. It’s bent at an angle so she can’t walk on it, but she has things called crutches that allow her to locomote like an Elcor. 

Shepard rolls her eyes. “Laugh it up,” she says. “When it’s better I’ll use it to kick your ass.” 

It’s a little odd to be living with Shepard. She’s still neat and military tidy, but now that they’re apparently _permanently cohabiting_ she orders a variety of things through the extranet, including a human shaped bed and multiple squares of coloured fabric for it. Blankets, she calls them. 

“Is the temperature too low?” he asks, even though he’s _pretty_ sure human standard temperature is lower than turian standard. 

“Nah,” Shepard says, sitting on the bed and draping them over herself. “They’re just cozy, you know? Environmental controls are _fine_ but it’s just not the same.” 

“I didn’t know humans were a burrowing species,” Garrus teases. 

Shepard fumbles one hand out of her blanket pile, one finger extended in a gesture translatable across species lines. 

But true to her word, Shepard does heal. 

“My next orders have come through,” she says about six weeks later with a frown. “I’m to remain on the Citadel until _something unspecified_. By order of Ambassador Udina.” 

“That… sounds unusual,” Garrus says cautiously. 

“The Ambassador getting involved? Extremely unusual,” Shepard says. “And nothing good. God, I hope I’m not going to be part of his security. It’d be extremely under utilising my skill set and also I would probably shoot him myself after about two hours.” 

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Shepard,” Garrus says. “You’d shoot him after one.” 

She laughs. 

His comm unit rings. Garrus answers it without thinking or checking the caller ID. It’s probably just C-Sec. “Officer Vakarian.” 

“What’s this I hear about you being _married_?” His father’s voice says, snapping with disapproval. 

Part of Garrus is impressed that it took this long for his father to learn about it. The rest of him… 

“Well, shit.” 


End file.
